


Chekov and Sulu Go to White Castle

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Crack, Drugs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-29
Updated: 2010-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sulu wakes up in the middle of nowhere, a.k.a. a seedy motel in New Jersey, in the year 2009. But that's not the only thing that's changed since yesterday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chekov and Sulu Go to White Castle

Morning. Or, 0800 hours, to be exact. Hikaru groans as he’s awakened by a primitive-looking object on the nightstand beside the bed, ringing insistently, as if it might explode at any second, into a million bits of plastic. He blinks the sleep from his eyes and looks blearily at the phone, not sure how to make the damn thing stop ringing. After a moment of prodding at it, he picks up the receiver, peering at it in confusion before he hears Kirk’s voice.

“Sulu? Are you there?”

“I think so?” he says hoarsely, bringing the speaker to his ear.

“Good. I thought I’d contact you on this instead of the communicator. These things are like antiques, they’re amazing!”

“How did you know where to…?”

“I called the front desk. Remember, last night, you were all, ‘Hey man, we’re getting a _room_ ,’ wink wink, nudge nudge?”

“I was _not_ all—”

“Anyway, I hate to do this to you if you’re even half as hung-over as I am, but Scotty figured out how to get us back home again. So get your butt back to the ship. And bring the Russian with you.”

Kirk stops talking and a dial tone replaces his voice. Hikaru looks at the phone with a furrowed brow again, wondering how exactly it’s meant to be shut off. He finally puts the receiver back into the cradle where it previously resided, which seems to do the trick. As for the “Russian,” he can only assume Kirk means Pavel, unless Hikaru just happened to pick up a different vodka-loving boy from the Old Country when he was drunk last night. But he’s not in Russia, is he? He’s in a Motel 6. In New Jersey. In the year 2009.

Hikaru jerks his head to peer across the bed when he hears a snore beside him. Pavel’s nude and rumpled between the sheets, curls sticky and haphazard with sweat. A French fry is stuck to his cheek. He mumbles in his sleep: “No more Crave Case…”

Hikaru thinks to himself that if this were a film, the current scene would require some backtracking even for the most astute viewer. He reaches over and gingerly peels the leftover fry from Pavel’s face, eating it with a look of both amusement and quiet contemplation.

***

“What _is_ that thing?”

Kirk leans far enough forward in his chair that anyone could just reach over and shove him onto the floor. Spock quirks an eyebrow as he looks from the bridge window to the captain, as if he’s considering exactly that course of action.

“It appears to be a wormhole, Captain,” he states. “A traversable tunnel that occurs in space and serves as a bridge between different universes, and, often, different times.”

“It’s a bloody nightmare, is what it is!” Scotty shouts from his engineering post. Sulu cringes at the sheer pitch of the Scotsman’s voice. “If we don’t get away from it now, there’s no telling where we’ll end up!”

“Chekov, you didn’t notice this little blip on the radar?” Kirk asks, sarcasm just oozing everywhere. Chekov looks back at him, a harsh blush forming on the apples of his cheeks, across the bridge of his nose.

“I am sorry, Captain. It is as if the wormhole has appeared from nowhere.”

“Yeah, yeah. Mysterious, lurking wormholes: the silent killers.” Kirk waves a hand dismissively and Sulu can see Uhura roll her eyes, all the way from his position at the console. His gaze moves back to Kirk when he’s addressed. “Sulu, get us out of here.”

“Yes, Sir. Entering—” His words are cut off when the ship startles from a fierce gravitational pull, and in a split second, he, Chekov and Scotty are doing all they can to combat the opposing force of the wormhole.

“Do it, now!” Kirk demands. “Come on, we’re gonna get sucked into this thing!”

“I’m givin’ her all she’s got, Captain!” Scotty exclaims, as he furiously pulls levers and presses buttons.

“You always say that!” Kirk yells.

“Well, it’s always bloody true!”

“Hikaru,” Chekov breathes, looking to the pilot in a sudden panic, undone by the possibility of an uncertain disaster, a dilemma they can’t somehow fix. Sulu meets his wide-eyed gaze, not knowing what to say. He turns his head to look at the stars through the window as they morph from peaceful stillness to bright whizzes of light. He grips the console with one hand and reaches out for Chekov’s wrist with the other, squeezing tight.

***

In the end, Sulu looks around and sees no one is seriously harmed. Chekov is deathly pale, having just helped the pilot land the damn U.S.S. _Enterprise_ in a deserted field on Earth. Sulu knows McCoy has put all these ideas in the boy’s head about burning up in the atmosphere of any god-forsaken planet, flesh sizzling on the bone as the temperature cooks them like roasts in a convection oven. He pats Chekov’s shoulder, letting his hand linger as he tells him it’s all right, that they did well. Chekov doesn’t seem to mind, so he holds onto him.

“Where in the hell are we?” Kirk asks, rubbing at his forehead, having bumped it against something at some point.

“We have landed on Earth, Captain,” Chekov says, his voice slightly shaky. He taps a few buttons to find coordinates. “We are in the United States…in the state of New Jersey.”

Kirk suddenly grins. “Jersey, huh? I slept with a girl from Jersey once.”

“Shocking,” Sulu and Uhura both mutter in unison.

“Ensign Chekov,” Spock interjects, stepping closer to the console. “Please inform us of the current stardate.”

“Yes, Sir, right away. Stardate is…” Chekov trails off, glancing at another reading before looking up in surprise. “Stardate is 2009.”

“Are you kidding?!” Kirk jumps out of his chair, stepping forward as well. For a moment, he looks pained, hands finding their way to his hips. “How can I look up Jersey Girl when it’s 200 years before she’s even born?” Sulu resists the urge to groan.

“Mister Scott,” Spock says, ignoring Kirk and hailing the chief engineer. “Are you currently able to devise a method of delivering the ship back to the wormhole and the previous stardate?”

“Agh…it’ll take a wee while,” Scotty moans. “I could use a drink.”

“Good thing we’re in the middle of nowhere,” Sulu idly states. He looks out the window, seeing nothing but grass in every direction. “I’m guessing people in 2009 have never seen a Federation starship before.”

“Hey! What say we go sightseeing?” Kirk grins and rubs his hands together gleefully, his face falling when Spock quirks his eyebrow in his signature brand of disdain.

“That would be unwise, Captain. Our presence on Earth in 2009 might alter the flow of time with irreparable effects upon future events.”

“Look, would it kill us to go out and mingle a little, have a few drinks?” The captain shrugs in a _Hey, it’s no big deal_ sort of way, and Sulu feels a little caught between Spock’s logical assessment of the situation and Kirk’s eagerness to soak up some history, not to mention some honest-to-god booze, untouched by the miserable machinery of the ship’s replicator. Spock nods, unphased by the question.

“I am fully prepared to calculate the chances of such an outcome, percentage-wise. It will merely take a few moments to—”

“Christ, Spock! Rhetorical question, ever heard of it?” Spock purses his lips when Kirk’s head lolls back dramatically.

“I am familiar with the concept of rhetoric, Captain, yes.”

Uhura stands up from her chair with a sigh, walking over to Spock. “Come on, Spock. It might be fun to unwind a bit, make the most of a bad situation.” She touches his hip with the most feather-light brush of fingers and Sulu can practically see Spock’s resolve melting from his squared shoulders, puddling on the floor of the bridge.

“Perhaps the diversion would be…welcome,” he finally admits.

“Grrrrreat!” Kirk claps his hands together once, then gives Spock a friendly jab to the shoulder that the first officer obviously doesn’t appreciate. “Let’s go get wasted.”

Kirk leaves the bridge and people begin to follow him out. Sulu can’t help but notice the mischievous gleam in Chekov’s eyes and the excited smile on his face, even when Scotty is blathering in the background about how unfair it is that everyone else gets to drink while he repairs the thrusters, and could someone please bring him back some whisky? The kid is definitely looking forward to this. And, yeah, so is he.

***

It’s not as easy as it seems, sightseeing in the 21st century. Kirk reasons that they’ll look like trick-or-treaters stuck in the wrong season if they wear their uniforms, so they all change into Starfleet athletic gear. And though he and Sulu both know how to drive cars, there’s no way of getting one where they are. They’re able to walk into town, however, and Kirk declares the mission accomplished when he spots the first pub they come across, nearly sprinting to its entrance.

While most of the others all find things to occupy themselves—and in Kirk’s case, girls to bother—Sulu, Chekov and McCoy make themselves comfortable at the bar. Chekov happily orders a double shot of vodka and McCoy orders the same, commenting that it sounds perfect. Sulu recalls from a long-ago American history class that the drinking age is 21 in this century, but the bartender doesn’t seem to know that—or, more likely, he just doesn’t care. His friends both get their vodka and Sulu is more than happy to sink into a pint of beer, something he’s missed quite a bit. He can get beer at the canteen on the ship but it’s not nearly the same as enjoying a frosty pint in a seedy bar in the middle of nowhere. It’s the ambiance, he figures.

After four rounds (including one where Sulu joins the others on the vodka front), McCoy is blinking in bewilderment at Chekov, who looks bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as ever, as if he’s ready to navigate the hell out of a starship on a moment’s notice. The doctor scratches his head, his words slurring.

“Kid, how’n the hell are you still upright? What’re you, 80 pounds?”

“One hundred and thirty-seven,” Chekov replies, a faint pout pursing his lips. “You would be the person to know that best, Doctor.”

“Yeah, well…you still look like you could use a cheeseburger or five.”

“I might like a cheeseburger soon. I’m getting hungry after so much good drink.” Chekov looks between Sulu and McCoy, smiling happily. Sulu smiles, feeling easygoing and pleasantly buzzed, and he reaches out to ruffle Chekov’s hair.

“I’m sure we can find something sufficiently nourishing for a growing boy like you.”

“I am not a boy, I’m a man,” Chekov says with a sniff, playfully shoving Sulu’s hand away.

“Yeah, you’re right…18 now, yeah? That qualifies.” Chekov smirks at the pilot’s words and looks between his two friends.

“Yes, 18. And better at holding my liquor than two older men.”

“Who’re you calling old?” McCoy grunts, scratching at his jaw. At that moment, Kirk comes bounding over, slinging an arm around his neck, obviously plastered.

“You, you old geezer.” He plants a sloppy kiss on McCoy’s cheek, which the doctor does his best to wipe away, nearly missing his own face when he raises his hand. Kirk giggles, covering his old friend’s ears with both hands and speaking to the others in a stage whisper. “You guys, don’t tell Bones, but guess what I just got?”

“What?” Chekov chirps, taking the bait, his eyes wide.

“I can hear you, you know,” McCoy says.

“Quiet, Bones, you’re dreaming.” Kirk looks around with a naughty giggle, then whispers again. “I bought some _weed_!”

Chekov wrinkles his nose. “I am allergic to Tellurian weed.”

“I think he means marijuana. Tellurian weed is a tough commodity to obtain here on Earth,” Sulu says, finishing his pint and motioning for another. McCoy rolls his eyes, pushing Kirk’s hands away.

“Why would I care about that? Marijuana’s a class-D narcotic, if even that. It was legalized eons ago.”

“Yeah, but in 2009, it’s still _illegal_ , so it’s FUN!” Sulu lifts his brow as the captain bounces with glee, and he wonders just what Kirk has been drinking that’s made him so giddy. Furthermore, why isn’t he drinking it, too? He turns back to the bartender with a nod when his refill is set before him, but in the same moment, he’s jostled by Kirk’s excited (and strong, jeez) grip on his shoulders. “Come onnnn,” he whines. “Let’s go in the bathroom and smoke it.”

Sulu looks at Chekov worriedly, his young friend already slipping off his barstool and ready to go. “I dunno…I know it’s pretty harmless, but Pavel is so young. Maybe we shouldn’t.”

“Hikaru, don’t worry,” Chekov says, flashing his adorable smile—the one that always undoes Sulu and leaves him a fuzzy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “It is like a rite of passage. I would be depriving myself if I did not try it.”

“Yeah!” Kirk chimes in. He leans close to Sulu, his breath reeking of something bitter. “C’mon, Sulu. Don’t you remember the good ol’ days of cutting class to go get high?”

“No. I was studying hard to get into the academy,” Sulu replies flatly. “And then studying hard to _stay_ in the academy.”

“You _talk_ too much! C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”

In a moment, Sulu and Chekov are shepherded into the men’s room of the bar, which is deserted, luckily. Kirk blocks the front door with the garbage bin and produces a joint from his pocket with a waggle of his brows, offering it to Chekov, who sniffs at it curiously. Sulu marvels at how innocent he looks, like a puppy smelling a stranger’s palm. He distracts himself by clearing his throat and looking back at Kirk.

“Do you have a light?”

“Yep.” Kirk pulls out a lighter and takes the joint back from Chekov, placing it between his lips and inhaling as he lights the tip. He exhales a cloud of smoke a moment later, then hands it back to the navigator with a satisfied grin. “Suck on that, kid.”

“That sounds rude,” Chekov says. He gingerly brings the joint to his mouth and Sulu watches in rapt fascination as full, pink lips wrap around the narrow end and soft, pale cheeks hollow ever so slightly with the intake of breath, timid and unsure but determined and ready, almost as if he’s sucking on the tip of a—

“AUGH!” Chekov coughs loudly, smoke rasping from his mouth. He nearly drops the joint on the floor. “It burns my throat!”

“That’s how you know it’s good,” Kirk replies, nodding.

“It’ll be better on the second go.” Sulu sighs and tries to shake the dirty thoughts from his head, taking the joint for his own hit. It goes down as smoothly as he remembers—and, yeah, okay, maybe he did skip a class or two in his day to indulge. But he wouldn’t admit as much to Kirk.

After a few rounds of passing the joint around, it’s down to a tiny roach and Chekov has obviously adjusted, giggling as the drug (and likely, the vodka) catches up with him. Sulu’s feeling high as a kite, and he slings an arm around his young friend when Chekov leans against his side, nuzzling—nuzzling?—his shoulder like a goddamn kitten. Yes, that’s exactly what it’s like. If he squints down at Chekov and concentrates, he can picture perky, furry pointed ears and wisps of whiskers.

“You’re a baby kitten,” he says absently.

“Is oxymoron, da?” Chekov asks, blinking up at him with big, kitten-y eyes.

“Do you guys think Bones would fuck me?” Kirk interjects. He leans lazily against the tiled wall, rubbing his cheek against its cool surface and waving a hand towards the door when someone bangs on it, yelling that they have to pee. “He’s got a nice dick.”

“I’m sure he would, Captain. He is your very best of friends and he loves you very much,” Chekov says confidently.

“But best friends aren’t supposed to fuck. It’s like…a no-no.” Kirk looks between Chekov and Sulu sadly, an impetuous pout curling his lips. “You guys are best friends. Do you fuck?”

“Uh…no. No, of—of course not,” Sulu says quickly. Chekov flushes and moves away from Sulu, shaking his head, his curls bouncing.

“Hikaru and I are not lovers.”

Kirk squints at them and gestures with both hands in a dramatic fashion, channeling James Dean, or some other silver-screen ham. “See, but you _should_ be. ’Cause you guys would be perfect together! ’Cause you _love_ each other. All gentle and shit…shit. Yeah. I dunno.” He scratches his nose and the other two look at each other in slight alarm.

“Uh…Jim, why don’t you go and try to talk to Bones? If you’re serious about this.” Sulu furrows his brow, hoping Kirk will listen to him.

“Y’know, Hik—Hika…Sulu, you’re right! I’m gonna go get my man, if it’s the last thing I do!”

“Hopefully not, Jim.”

“Reach for the stars!” Kirk bellows, turning with a slight stumble and pumping his fist in the air. He ambles out of the bathroom and they can hear him yelling, _Bones, you’re wearing_ way _too many pants!_ in the distance when the door swings shut again.

“Good luck, Captain!” Chekov calls, before turning to Sulu with a grimace. “He is doomed, da?”

“Da,” Sulu says, laughing suddenly, which makes Chekov laugh as well. The pilot only stops when he realizes the gravity of the prior conversation, and exactly what Kirk was getting at beneath the drunken, stoned ramblings. “Um…so, that was weird, huh?”

“A little.” Chekov nods, then blinks his surprise when his stomach rumbles loudly enough to echo off the walls. “Oh, Hikaru, I’m _starving_! Can we please go and find food to eat?”

“Yeah, I’m kinda famished myself.”

Without thinking, Sulu takes the young man’s hand in his own and leads him out of the bathroom, back into the bar. Chekov seems happy to follow and doesn’t let his grip on Sulu’s hand lapse, smiling big when Sulu turns to glance at him. They make their way to the exit, nearly getting sidelined by Kirk as he rushes back to the bathroom, pulling McCoy along behind him. Outside, Sulu catches sight of Spock and Uhura making out against the building’s façade in a dimly lit area, and then Chekov nudges his shoulder, alerting him to the sight of Scotty kissing a random woman in a nearby parked car. In a moment’s time, the woman is suddenly gone from view and Scotty wears the distinct expression of a man getting the blowjob of his life.

 _Okay, universe, I get it_ , Sulu thinks. He grumbles a bit and walks faster, never letting go of Chekov, who struggles to match his pace.

***

After fifteen minutes of walking, Sulu’s stomach is making noises at the same decibel as Chekov’s. He wants to complain that he’s never been so hungry in his life, but he knows it won’t help. Plus, he’s been in worse situations before. Fighting off Romulan dickheads on a rickety platform, dangling high above the surface of Vulcan, and ducking between sudden flares of fire with giant fucking blades being swiped at his head? Yeah, that’s at least somewhat comparable to the feeling of his stomach trying to consume itself at this very moment. Somewhat.

“Perhaps we should have gone back to the ship,” Chekov sighs. “We could have replicated something edible.”

“We’ll find something,” Sulu says. He doesn’t admit as much, but he’s halfway distracted from his hunger by the conversation they had with Kirk back at the bar. Sure, Pavel— _Chekov_ —is an attractive person. But they’re best friends, and like Kirk said, best friends aren’t supposed to fuck. Though he’s willing to bet Kirk is busy right now tossing that particular golden rule out the window. He’s heard quite a lot about the infamous mouth of James T. Kirk, useful for much more than just spouting insubordinate comments to his superiors.

“Do you think the captain is having fun with Doctor McCoy?” Chekov asks, seemingly on the same train of thought as Sulu. He smirks, looking up at the sky.

“I’m sure. Those two have been making eyes at each other since we were back in the academy, what with Jim always being the resident tease and McCoy pretending to be all grumpy and uninterested...it’s like they’re doing a dance.”

“Maybe Kirk thinks we are also doing a dance.” Chekov looks up at Sulu with a slightly quirked brow, and if anything is dancing, it’s the look in his eyes. Sulu laughs nervously.

“Yeah…what kind of dance? Tango? Cha-cha?”

Chekov giggles, and man, if that isn’t an _adorable_ sound, jeez, and nudges Sulu’s arm. “You’re avoiding my question, Hikaru. We were friends in academy as well. If you think they were romantic then, it would be logical for Kirk to think we were more than just friends.”

“You sound like Spock. You turning Vulcan on me?” Sulu rolls his eyes, but fondly. He’s trying to come up with a good way of changing the subject when a breeze hits them and brings with it the unmistakable smell of food. Meat, to be exact. Delicious, savory meat. He lifts his head quickly and sniffs. “You smell that?”

“…Yes,” Chekov says. His accent is thick with hunger—maybe the way it sounds when it’s thick with lust? _Damn it, Sulu!_ Ever the perfect navigator, he looks around and points at the building down the road, the glorious origin of the scent. “It must be coming from that structure.” He squints to read the sign. “White…Castle? Do you think royalty lives there? Perhaps they will not want to share their food.”

Sulu laughs, unable to help himself. “It’s probably some kind of restaurant. There’s a bunch of old-fashioned cars parked out front. Come on, let’s go.”

“Oh, but…I don’t have much more of the 21st-century American money I was given.” Chekov squints miserably. “I spent it on my vodka.” Sulu shakes his head, giving his friend a reassuring pat on the back.

“No worries, I put my beers on Kirk’s tab. The food’s on me.” He grins and Chekov nearly squeals with glee, knowing his stomach will soon be filled.

“Oh, Hikaru, I could kiss you!” he exclaims. Sulu feels himself blush and smiles awkwardly, not knowing how else to react. Luckily, Chekov is soon doing one of his signature sprints down the road, and he only has to concentrate on keeping up, rather than letting him see the pinkness of his cheeks. At least this way, if asked, he can dismiss it as a post-run flush. The hard-on might be slightly more difficult to explain.

***

They walk inside the place and are hit in the faces with the unmistakable smells of red meat, frying oil and grease. The two men gasp in unison.

“This is what heaven must smell like,” Chekov whispers, his eyes half-closed. _Damn, why are his eyes half-closed like that?!_

“If heaven is filled with delicious…” Sulu looks around at the trays of the other customers, noting what they’re eating. “Tiny burgers and crinkle-cut fries.”

“They look like the French fries from the ship’s cafeteria.”

“But I bet they’re ten times better.”

Sulu steps up to the counter when it’s his turn and looks at the menu blankly. Everything smells good and looks good and probably tastes like a flavor orgasm. “Um…gah. I dunno what to get. What do you want, Pavel?”

Chekov leans forward to peer at the menu, then quickly looks down when his stomach grumbles again with hunger. “Everything,” he says, with an embarrassed laugh, which makes Sulu chuckle fondly.

The cashier looks up with a vaguely annoyed expression when she hears Chekov’s accent. “Um…where’re you from?”

“I am from the great nation of Russia,” Chekov states proudly.

“Is that, like…in Africa?”

Chekov furrows his brow, now rather annoyed himself, and ignores the girl, looking back at the menu. Sulu has to try really, _really_ hard not to sputter and double over with laughter. “We would like a Crave Case, please.”

Sulu blinks, surprised at first by Chekov’s bold selection—consuming 30 burgers is no small feat—but then he feels his own stomach pang, his insides probably twisting themselves up in a knot, what with all these amazing scents of food and promises of food and so far, no goddamn _food_ , and he nods his assent to the cashier. “Yeah. A Crave Case. And six orders of fries.”

“Three for you and three for me?” Chekov asks, suddenly smiling brightly. Sulu smiles back and nods indulgently.

“Of course.”

The cashier twists a strand of fake-looking hair around her finger and pops her gum with a bland expression, her voice a strict monotone. “Anything to drink?”

“I brought a flask of vodka with me from the ship,” Chekov says, patting his jacket pocket.

“Then why did you buy all that vodka in the bar?”

“For the ambiance.”

Chekov looks at Sulu with big (and yes, still kitten-y) eyes, as if his logic is perfectly sound, and Sulu hesitates, recalling his own thoughts back at the bar. “Um…nothing to drink, no.”

Sulu quickly pays and a few agonizing minutes later, they’re presented with the massive Crave Case, which Chekov gladly accepts, pressing his nose to the box. “You’re going to hog all the smell,” Sulu jokes, taking the bag of fries from the uninterested cashier with a nod. It’s comforting, he thinks, that customer service hasn’t changed much since two centuries past.

“Shall we eat here?” The bridge of Chekov’s nose is already wrinkled in disgust as he looks around at the drunken frat boys and likely crazy people scattered around the restaurant. Sulu cocks his head in thought, then brightens with a sudden idea.

“We passed on a motel on our way here. Why don’t we get a room for the night and eat there? We’ve already walked a pretty far distance from the ship.”

“That is a good idea,” Chekov says, nodding. “But perhaps we are needed back there tonight?”

“One way to find out.”

They head out of the White Castle so that no one can see or hear when Sulu hails Kirk on his communicator. “Jim, it’s Sulu. You there?” The first sound they hear in return is a faint popping noise, followed by a groan in the background. Sulu’s face contorts, instantly recognizing the soundtrack of sloppy oral sex. Chekov leans in to hear it more clearly. The captain’s voice is hoarse when he replies.

“Kinda in the middle of somethin’ here, Sulu,” he slurs.

“Yeah…I can hear that. Um.” He cringes, feeling dirty all over. “I’m here with Pavel. Do we need to return to the ship tonight? Because we were thinking of getting a motel room and eating dinner there.” He tries to imagine whether Kirk is on the giving or receiving end, but his unspoken question immediately receives a very gruff and loud answer.

“Damn it, Jim, get off that thing and suck me already! I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock over here!” Jesus. Sulu leans back from the communicator as if a claw reached out of it and snapped at him. Chekov listens intently, wide-eyed, reaching into the bag clutched in Sulu’s other hand and extracting a fry.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Sulu!” Kirk says hastily. “Scotty says the ship won’t be ready to head back to the wormhole ’til morning anyway, so go have fun with the kid. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Use lube,” McCoy grunts. Chekov nearly chokes on his fry.

“Jim, just— _McCoy_!” Sulu sputters, before Kirk laughs and calls, “Kirk out,” ending the communication. Sulu sighs and reaches over to pat his friend’s back when he can’t stop coughing. “Easy, there. Don’t drop the burgers.”

“R-right. Yes.” Chekov sucks in a breath, nodding. His cheeks are bright pink and Sulu watches him in quiet wonder as he composes himself. “The b-burgers. I’ve got them.” They start to walk, the silence hanging heavy around them once Chekov is thoroughly done clearing his throat.

“Don’t pay them any mind,” Sulu says after a few moments. “They’re just being jerks.” He pats Chekov’s back again, in the friendliest, least creepy way he can manage. He’s not sure if he’s imagining things when he notices Chekov shiver from the touch, his fingers curling that much more around the edges of the Crave Case.

“I am not bothered,” he says, quietly. He looks at Sulu furtively, then down the road, quickening his steps when he spies the motel. Sulu wonders what he’s thinking, knowing that all _he_ can think is: _Shit, I don’t_ have _any lube._

***

It turns out that a mere 30 dollars is enough to secure them a room for the night at the Motel 6, which they easily manage by pooling the last of their individual monies together. The sketchy guy behind the counter pats down his greasy comb over, then punches at his keyboard with his two index fingers.

“Okay…two double beds or one queen-sized bed?”

“Ah…” Sulu shrugs, trying to sound as casual as he can in his response. “Whatever you’ve got, I guess.” He can practically feel the heat radiating from the tips of Chekov’s ears at the mention of a single bed.

“Well, we’ve got one last twofer, but I’ll have to check and see if we’ve got any lingering reservations in the—”

“The single bed is fine,” Chekov blurts out. Sulu looks at him in surprise and pretends not to notice that his curly-haired friend is pink-cheeked again, choosing instead to return his smile with a slim one of his own, nodding.

“Okay, if you say so,” the guy says, shrugging. He takes their cash and hands them two room keys in return. “Room 314. Ice machine’s by the elevator, bucket’s in the room. Check-out time is noon and continental breakfast is served at nine o’clock.”

Chekov straightens up, looking highly interested. “What do you serve with the continental breakfast?”

The guy gives the Russian boy a deadpan look, sniffing before answering. “Mini bagels, mini danishes and coffee.”

“Do you have tea?”

“Coffee,” the man repeats, in the same tone.

“Great, see you in the morning,” Sulu interjects. He grabs Chekov by the crook of his arm and ushers him to the elevator. “Pavel, we probably won’t even have time to eat the breakfast. The ship will be ready to fly home by then.” He presses the button for the elevator and steps in when it arrives, with Pavel following and pressing the floor button numbered “3.”

“It sounded like an exciting concept. ‘Continental’ breakfast. Very intriguing.”

“Something tells me we’ll be lucky if the bed sheets don’t have stains all over them, let alone get treated to a lavish breakfast spread.”

“What kind of stains?” Chekov asks, cringing. Sulu laughs.

“Pavel, if you have to ask…”

As soon as they get to their room, they throw the food on the bed and start tearing into it, opening the Crave Case and nearly ripping the paper bag with the fries inside. Chekov removes the flask from his jacket and opens it to take a swig, offering it to Sulu, who does the same.

“I’ve never been so hungry in my _life_ ,” Sulu groans. He puts the flask down on the bedside table and picks up one of the juicy, tiny hamburgers—Sliders, he saw they were called—about to take a big bite, when Chekov stops him.

“Wait, Hikaru! It’s more fun if we do it together. In unison.” He lifts his brow knowingly as he picks up a burger of his own, and Sulu can’t help but laugh, shaking his head at his friend’s insane cuteness. How can he not indulge his whims when he asks like that?

“Sure, if it makes you happy,” he says. He holds his Slider up to his mouth with both hands and nods for Chekov to mirror the action, both of them smiling all the while. “On the count of three, okay? One…two…three!”

And then, just as Chekov desired, both men shove their burgers into their waiting, ravenous mouths, and good _goddamn_ , they taste so fucking _good_. They have these onion pieces in them, like crystalline flavor pellets, and a little slice of heavenly pickle, and—oh, god—a thin, wafer-like patty of beautiful _meat_ sandwiched between a soft, almost slick, pillowy bun.

Sulu can feel his eyes rolling back in satisfaction. He wants to _make love_ to this hamburger, it’s so good, and he’s still got 14 glorious little gems to go. Chekov makes a sound that’s practically orgasmic.

“Hikaru, this food is _wondrous_ ,” he gasps, swallowing down the sandwich and licking his lips. He rustles in the bag for a handful of fries, shoving them into his mouth and relishing the salty taste, his chest heaving. “Do you think…the flavor is intensified because of our drinking and the marijuana smoking? Or does it always taste this good?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Sulu says, already chomping down on another Slider. He follows the first bite with a bunch of fries. “Either way, it’s the best damn food I’ve ever had.”

“Why do they not have this food in the 23rd century?” Chekov groans.

“They’re idiots, complete idiots.”

For a few glorious minutes, it’s a complete cacophony of hands reaching for more burgers, fries, and the occasional slug of vodka, the pair focused on nothing but sating their drug- and alcohol-fueled hunger with the bonanza of fast food. Then, after a while, Sulu starts paying attention to the way Chekov eats his share of the fries, pushing the crinkle-cut morsels into his mouth and closing his lips around his fingers before he’s fully pulled them out. He watches those slender digits make their way through the hot tunnel of Chekov’s lips, coming out shiny with glistening, warm saliva as his jaw tightens to chew and his pale throat undulates with the otherwise ordinary motion of swallowing. It feels like it’s all happening in slow-motion. He watches the crescent of Chekov’s light brown eyelashes flutter and fall to his rosy cheeks as he savors the taste of 21st-century fast food euphoria; he notices the sheen of sweat that’s arisen across the Russian boy’s brow from the hurried fever of eating, of wanting so badly and then blessedly receiving.

It’s the hottest fucking thing Sulu has ever seen.

He doesn’t quite realize he’s starting at the younger man until he feels Chekov staring _back_ , a look in his eyes that signifies he’s hungry for more than just food.

“Hikaru,” he says, his voice nearly breathless, sending a shiver through Sulu. “Do you think, that in this era, this White Castle is a…an aphrodisiac?”

“I-it might be,” Sulu stutters, swallowing the last of a mouthful of fries. “Do you feel it, too?”

“Da.” Chekov’s gaze has now shifted to predatory. Sulu swallows again, harder. “I feel it, Hikaru. And I want to feel you.”

“Holy shit,” Sulu breathes.

He pushes what’s left of the food out of the way to clear the path between them on the bed, and then Chekov lunges at him, knocking him onto his back and claiming his lips with a voracious moan. Sulu immediately slicks his tongue into Chekov’s mouth, licking at the salt-stained, burning hot interior, the sharp edges of his immaculate teeth. He fists his hands in the fabric of Chekov’s jacket and wrenches it off him as his own shirt gets rucked up, exposing his torso to the blunt edges of the Russian’s fingernails, skating down his chest to his stomach. Sulu curses into his mouth with a grunt as he arches, feeling feverish and shaky. He wants Chekov— _Pavel_ —so bad. He’s never wanted anyone more. He helps to wrestle Pavel’s T-shirt off his body and tosses it away quickly, as if it’s on fire.

“Pavel, god, wanted this for so long…been thinking about it all night…”

“You should have said,” Pavel gasps, helping to rid Hikaru of his jacket and shirt as well, mouthing at his collarbone before everything is off. “I was, too.”

“I just…Kirk and McCoy,” he says, reaching up to run his fingers through Pavel’s curls.

“I know. They are both smarter than they look.”

Pavel grins then, and Hikaru can’t fucking _stand_ it, he has to flip the kid onto his back and start kissing wetly all over his neck and throat and chest, relishing the gasps and moans he elicits when he bites lightly at a nipple or licks at a certain spot between his ribs. Pavel is flushing with burning hot excitement beneath him, combing his fingers haphazardly through Hikaru’s dark hair and murmuring words of encouragement in Russian, words that he wishes he could understand, though he still feels their urgency beneath his skin, crawling through his system and threatening to turn him inside out. He dips his tongue into Pavel’s navel, which sends him keening and bucking, and he grins, knowing that he’s going to have his way and soon find every single tiny spot that drives the boy _insane_.

The smug look is quickly wiped from his expression when Pavel rolls his hips against his own, and all he can see are the bright, blinding flickers of stars behind his eyes.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Hikaru groans. Pavel’s laughter is sweet and bubbly as ever, despite his newly lust-darkened eyes and sinful tongue sweeping across his lips, looking for salt left behind from their kiss. He gives another sinuous roll of his hips and Hikaru can’t help but return the motion, delighting in the way their bodies fit together.

“This is the idea,” Pavel murmurs. His voice sounds like dark poison and Hikaru wants to dive in, head first. “Fucking…you fucking me. Hard. _Now_.”

“I…” Hikaru tries to collect his thoughts and focus beyond the brutal sensation of their crotches rubbing together, the tantalizing friction of their needy cocks and the fabric of their Starfleet Academy athletic shorts caught between them. He lands on the same thought he had earlier in the evening. “…I don’t have any lube.”

“The bathroom,” Pavel gasps, bucking slightly. “Check there, _please_.”

In an instant, Hikaru is scrambling to his feet and nearly tripping over himself to get to the bathroom. Once there, he flicks on the light and tries to adjust his vision to the artificial brightness and the sight of all the tiny bottles on the sink and along the bathtub, with miniscule writing on the labels. He squints, picking up each one and quickly regarding it before throwing it away, to who knows where—bubble bath, shaving cream, shampoo. He’s about to go for the conditioner when he spots one last bottle: body lotion. Perfect, he thinks. It’s all he can do not to shout, _I have makeshift lube! Take that, brain!_

He dashes out of the bathroom, holding up the lotion triumphantly and about to show it off, when his eyes focus on the scorchingly gorgeous sight of Pavel, naked and sprawled across the bed, his fingers wound tight around the darkened column of his cock and his front teeth sinking wantonly into the chapped pillow of his lower lip.

Brain? What brain?

“Hikaru…” Pavel whispers. He closes his eyes briefly as he shudders from his own touch. “Don’t just stand there.”

“Coming,” he blurts out, and hopes that his cock doesn’t take that to mean something different. He nearly falls over in his attempt to shuck his shorts and underwear off, and then almost stumbles into the bed. He manages to climb back on and fumbles with the bottle, which he knows he should have opened back in the bathroom, before Pavel simultaneously destroyed all of his synapses. “Damn fucking thing, come on,” he mutters, then wrenches the bottle open. He looks up to see Pavel grinning, which makes him grin, too.

“It is being disagreeable when we are simply trying to follow the Doctor’s orders.”

“He’s the last person I’m thinking about, trust me,” Hikaru snorts. He slicks up his fingers with the lotion as Pavel reaches up to brush the hair back from his forehead, making Hikaru shiver.

“Da, me too,” he murmurs.

Hikaru moves between Pavel’s legs, watching in wonder as they spread apart, milky and smooth, lightly dusted with soft brown hair. His fingertips gravitate to Pavel’s entrance, circling the lotion around the tight muscle slowly, making the boy gasp and arch again. Hikaru can’t get over how beautiful he is, how stupid it was to wait this long, and he bends to press a kiss to the top of his thigh as he slowly slides one finger inside him.

“Yes,” Pavel whispers, on an exhalation of breath. Hikaru licks his lips and lifts his head to watch his friend-turned-lover’s expression as he carefully works his finger, crooking it and pressing deep before adding a second. He scissors them suddenly and Pavel groans, starting to writhe on the bed, his hips moving so he can press back on the fingers inside him. Soon, he’s fucking himself on Hikaru’s digits, begging for a third, which he gives him, thrusting them slowly and then, surprising him with a sudden twist that has Pavel thrashing, his cock leaking all over his toned stomach. “Fuck me, Hikaru, _fuck me, please_ ,” he begs, and Hikaru nearly comes right then and there. He removes his fingers and swipes whatever’s left of the lotion on his cock, hissing faintly, then lines himself up, his hands curling around Pavel’s hips to steady him.

“Slow?” he whispers.

“ _Nyet_ ,” Pavel grunts.

Hikaru’s fingers flex against his hipbones and he thrusts all the way inside him.

“YES!” Pavel shouts, rocking up like lightning to meet the initial thrust, and Hikaru can barely look at the boy beneath him, he’s so beautiful. He steadies himself before pulling back out and driving in again, and Pavel is rendered useless and babbling, moaning for more of Hikaru’s cock in Russian, English, and maybe a hundred other languages. Hikaru grits his teeth and tries to focus on a fast-paced rhythm, moaning loudly when he feels just how slick and tight Pavel is, pressing against the push and pull of his muscles. He reaches up to run his hands over Pavel’s chest, pinching at his nipples on a deep thrust, making the boy quake.

“P-Pavel, fuck…you feel amazing…” He reaches up to slide his clean hand over his jaw, when Pavel catches him by the wrist. Hikaru remembers the moment they first entered the wormhole, the way he squeezed the navigator’s wrist to say, _I’m here with_ —

“ _You_ ,” Pavel moans, then sucks Hikaru’s fingers into his mouth. The hot, wet suction combined with the pulsing of muscles around his cock is almost too much, and yeah, there are those stars again. He watches with rapt fascination as rosy cheeks hollow around his fingers, feeling his cock twitch inside Pavel at the very sight. He pulls his fingers back from Pavel’s lips; it’s too early to let this end and he wants to give him even more pleasure, wants to feel him completely unravel.

Hikaru wraps his saliva-dampened fingers around the shaft of Pavel’s cock and starts to pump him in time with his thrusts, causing his hips to jump, a breathless cry emanating from his trembling lungs. They move together fluidly, Pavel’s cries getting more hoarse and desperate as Hikaru’s hand quickens, his hips snapping forward harder and deeper. He nudges his thumb beneath the head of Pavel’s cock, then traces it back and forth along the throbbing vein, moaning at the painful pleasure of fingernails scratching across his shoulder blades in response. Pavel’s legs tighten around his thighs and the flush creeping across his pale chest and throat tells Hikaru that he’s close, so damn close.

“Come for me, Pasha,” Hikaru whispers. Pavel shudders at his words, tightening around him and spilling hot and heavy over his hand, shouting something as he’s taken swiftly by his release. Hikaru is so transfixed by the stunned, wide-eyed expression on his face that it takes him a few moments to realize that Pavel shouted his name.

His thrusts falter, transforming into needy, desperate bucks of his hips, and his orgasm blindsides him, crashing throughout his body like a roaring tidal wave.

Hikaru vaguely registers the heaving of Pavel’s chest beneath his own, and he somehow forces himself to shift his body and carefully pull out before embracing the soft creak of the motel mattress. When he cracks his eyes open again, the room is dark and Pavel’s arms are wrapped snugly around him, holding him against his chest.

“Pavel,” he mumbles, his lips brushing against the warm skin between shoulder and collarbone. Pavel shushes him, petting his hair.

“It is okay, Hikaru,” he whispers. “You can sleep. We go home tomorrow.”

 _Home_ , he thinks, closing his eyes again. As far as he’s concerned, this motel room can be their new home, this very bed that holds their tired bodies and the remnants of an ill-advised fast food binge, just as long as Pavel is here with him. It’s a pretty mushy thought, he knows, probably too mushy to share; or, maybe not. He decides to sleep on it.

***

He doesn’t even know how Kirk is standing upright, let alone so goddamn chipper after what he got up to last night, but there he is, all smiles and munching on a pear when Sulu and Chekov make it back to the bridge. McCoy is sitting nearby, obviously hung-over and grumpy, his palm pasted to his furrowed brow.

“Kids!” Kirk chirps, regarding his pilot and navigator with a flourish of his hand. “How are we feeling this morning?”

“Queasy,” Chekov sighs, rubbing his stomach. Sulu looks at him sympathetically.

“We ate too much last night.”

“I’ll bet that’s not all you did.” Kirk winks and swivels in his chair, turning to face McCoy. “Am I right, Bones?”

“Shut _up_ , Jim,” he grunts. He stands up and nods at Sulu and Chekov, already looking displeased with them. “I’m going to Sickbay. Try not to hit too many speed bumps on the way back, if you don’t want surprise hyposprays in your sleep.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Chekov says, frowning slightly. They all watch McCoy leave, the door swooshing shut behind him.

Kirk leans back and sighs. “Isn’t he dreamy?” Sulu and Chekov exchange a look.

“Um. Captain, are we heading back soon…?”

“Yep. Scotty’s got it all figured out now, so let’s get going. To your stations, gentlemen.”

“And gentlewomen,” Uhura adds, rolling her eyes as she enters the bridge and takes her seat. Spock glances at her from where he stands, and Sulu wonders if that’s a hickey the first officer is sporting, peeking out from beneath his uniform’s collar. Hell, he remembers last night; he _knows_ it’s a hickey. It almost makes Spock look human.

“Yeah, sure, that, too. Scotty, let us know when we’re good to go.” Scotty replies from engineering with his usual “Aye, Captain,” and Kirk claps his hands together, adjusting his position in his chair. He gives a thumbs-up to the window and its view of a lone cow chewing its cud in the field. “It’s been real, 21st century. Thanks for the memories.”

At that, Chekov turns his head and smiles brightly at Sulu. He can’t help but smile back, tilting his head to listen when Chekov leans close and whispers in his ear.

“Hikaru. You have a ketchup stain on your face.”

“Oh, for…” He grumbles and reaches up to wipe at his cheek, stilling when Chekov grasps his wrist and squeezes.

“Leave it,” he murmurs. “I will lick it off after we return.”

Sulu blinks and moves both hands to the console, flicking switches and pressing buttons, counting down to takeoff. He’s suddenly in a very big rush to go home.


End file.
